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Martie
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Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049
California

0 posted 1999-12-18 01:09 AM


Their Father’s Green Eyes


Picture something small
and malignant
under the soft brown curl of hair,
something pea sized.
Picture two sons.
Who would love them ever,
as much as she did?  

From the antiseptic room
driving, driving,
she passed green trees and gardens,
a woman with a hose
young and shapely in shorts
watering the shrubs
roses and petunias
of a normal, healthy life.
Passed mothers
with babies in strollers,
parks full of baseball playing boys,
muscular men
jogging down streets,
old women in flowered dresses
walking dogs.
She passed young girls
holding hands
with pimply-faced boys.
She looked through tears.
  
His, her husband’s,
callused work-worn hands
moved across the soft plane
of her belly,
cupped her mother breasts,
that still leaked milk
when she got excited and
for a moment
everything was alright.

That summer night,
the window open
and the crickets singing,
awake,
aching loss,
time’s steady march
into a future.
quiet,
quiet as a tongue
licking velvet cat paws,
after the kill.

Morning,
face in the three way mirror
on and on into the room,
a crowd of me, she thought
and touched the cold glass.

Lying on the rug,
her child,
methodically chewing
a piece of gum.
Straw hair, bleached in places
around his face,
tongue slipped between
lips concentration,
blue jeaned legs
keeping time.
Could have been a baby sleeping
brown lash soft,
instead he was eight.
The chocolate ice cream
around his mouth,
the ink drawings on his arm
the grass stains on his knees
were evidence of a life apart
from her.

Transfixed by the beauty
of this child
  
His brother burst blooming like flowers
into the room, when he smiled
a gap where his front teeth
had been.
Then
an ease came to her center  
and their father’s green eyes
became her determination.



< !signature-->

 In the dew of little things,
the heart finds its morning
and is refreshed.
(ee cummings)


[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 12-18-1999).]

© Copyright 1999 Martie Odell Ingebretsen - All Rights Reserved
hoot_owl_rn
Member Patricius
since 1999-07-05
Posts 10750
Glen Hope, PA USA
1 posted 1999-12-18 02:20 AM


Martie...I find your use of imagery amazing!!
Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049
California
2 posted 1999-12-18 10:42 AM


Thank you hoot, I find you amazing!

 In the dew of little things,
the heart finds its morning
and is refreshed.
(ee cummings)

Marge Tindal
Deputy Moderator 5 ToursDeputy Moderator 1 TourDeputy Moderator 1 TourDeputy Moderator 1 Tour
Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384
Florida's Foreverly Shores
3 posted 1999-12-18 10:54 AM


Martie -
There is SO much in this one.
The phrasing just too REAL ..
what images you've presented.
This is truly a favorite of mine.

'Morning,
face in the three way mirror
on and on into the room,
a crowd of me, she thought
and touched the cold glass.'

WOW !  I think that
a crowd of you would be a
good thing to see.

~*Marge*~




 ~*The pen of the poet never runs out of ink, as long as we breathe.*~
noles1@totcon.com



Seaangel
Member
since 1999-07-27
Posts 167
Auckland, New Zealand
4 posted 1999-12-18 05:27 PM


You keep opening my eyes to new things, Martie. I love the sequencing of this poem.
Are you going to write a Christmas poem? Please do!

Severn
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-17
Posts 7704

5 posted 1999-12-18 07:52 PM


Agreeing with all of the above of course.
Wow - trying to slip between all the images and follow the central one...each individual image just grabbed me - you write in such a way that you assault the senses, my friend.

Fantastic!
K

Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049
California
6 posted 1999-12-18 10:58 PM


Marge--thank you so much for always reading my stuff and especially for liking it.

Seaangel--a Christmas poem--so busy now at flower shop, how about an after-christmas poem.  Thanks for your comments so sweet.

Severn--I love writing things that you like--you are so receptive.  Thank you!

 In the dew of little things,
the heart finds its morning
and is refreshed.
(ee cummings)

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